We all have those moments of reflection. Something happens that really makes you think: things are gunna have to fucking change. You’re going to have to step up and make something of yourself. It might be the death of a family member, being sacked from a job, a near-death experience or narrowly avoiding the photographer at Thekla on the Thursday you’ve skived off work. For me, my moment came a few days back when I tried (without avail) to explain to my girlfriend why seeing the Steward get twatted by the ball at Birmingham away was probably the funniest moment of my life. It may not be a classic Eureka moment, but all the same the message is loud and clear; it’s time to grow up McGaz mate.

This sparked a mini assessment of where I am in life...21?! I still feel like i’m 16, and i’m still waiting for the Chairman of Liverpool to knock on my door and offer me the player-manager role on a 24 year contract. I’d settle on 30 grand a week initially (it is the dream job after all, money is no object) but after a year or two i’d be demanding parity with Mourinho and the chance to retire to the Maldives by the time I reach 40, and live out the rest of my days in the bliss of being filthy rich. Occasionally I must admit that I start to doubt whether this dream will come true. But then, when i’m just about to hit the low point, some twat of a Facebook Philosopher makes some post along the lines of “anything is possible if you keep on believing”, with a photo of Ghandi or someone in the background and I get sucked right back in again. Keep the fucking dream alive, man.

 I reckon it’s something facing many people my age. Many are just finishing Uni and coming to terms with the all round depression of having to find a job- and any job will have to do. Others didn’t bother with Uni and are now into a fourth or fifth year of working in a job they hate, with little prospect of any great progression in their career or indeed the climb on to the fabled property ladder. I’m somewhere between the two, what with being a drop out and everything. “Chin up McGarry,” I hear you cry, “stop being such a little fanny”. Solid advice that may be, it still strikes me as a bit of a shit state of affairs for 20-odd year olds nowadays. Unless they’ve been to Eton, obviously.

If you’ve made it to this paragraph without closing the page and giving your wrists a particularly vicious slitting, you’ll be pleased to know things are about to get better. I’ve discovered a cure for all these concerns. That cure is nothing more than a good old fashioned spot of compulsive lying, and I shall go on to explain why. There’s a bloke in work who’s a bigger loser than I am, but he’s the happiest camper I know (he’s neither a genuine camper, nor a genuine homosexual, just a figure of speech). He’s taken to lying repeatedly, and despite everyone else knowing his tales are a work of complete fiction, he takes a shit of a lot of joy from them. Good on him I say. And good on his mate, who in the only three bets he has ever made in his life, has made a combined £195000 from a stake of just under a hundred quid. Apparently.

 In fact, I might mention that Liverpool job to him; I bet he knows someone who could set me up.